Obsessions
by the-anthem
Summary: You can't obsess over life to live it, and you can't obsess over love to get it. This is what Helga discovers on one lonely night in her apartment, and the during the not-so-lonely morning afterwards. T for occasional language?


You can't obsess over life to live it.

That's what you realize, too late, in your small apartment with the peach paint peeling off the walls. You live so close to the bridge that the white window frame in the corner shakes when cars speed up the ramp. You shut the window.

It's getting late and you're on your third drink of the day. Four o' clock shot of Kahlua in your coffee at work in the ladies' bathroom, six o' clock beer, seven o' clock wine—cheap wine from the grocery store that pools in your mouth. The sky is dirty with dark clouds.

Life hasn't gotten any better.

You don't look too worse for wear, only twenty three, hair slipping past your shoulders with a dull blonde shine. Blue eyes still strong, though blurry now with stress and alcohol. College was good to you, but getting a job was hell. Now you're stuck in a cubicle five days a week, working for a corporate giant. A lackey.

People always said you'd be good in business, you're stubborn, a good negotiator. But you don't want to negotiate anymore. You don't want to argue, you want life to just give for once.

A cardboard box sits on the carpet in the middle of the room, smelling like dust and cedar. It's closed, still taped over the mouth, but there are small tears on the side where it was dropped or bumped into walls and doorframes during the moving process. Thrown into a closet one day and sitting there for two years. Now you kneel down, sit your glass on the wood floor next to the tails of the carpet, and settle yourself cross-legged before it.

You start to tear it open. The tape rips and the flaps almost fly off. Pink books with slightly bent covers sit there in a huge pile.

So you pick one up, flip to a random page, and read. You read about golden hair, straw-colored hair, hair the color of the sun. A blue cap, a sweet sensibility, a kind heart and a warm laugh. The words don't stop and there are a million more where that came from because you wrote book after book of poetry. You were in love, or what you called love. For a cynical girl, you were pretty innocent.

But here's the problem. You say you _were_ in love, but did you ever forget about him? You see a blonde man on the street and you want to shout out the name you think of, you want to run and tap on his shoulder, you want to sprint around the block just to be able to bump into him. Just in case. Here's where you take another drink. You down the last of the wine in your glass and read some more.

Obsessions are hard to shake. When life was good to you, when you were smart and you knew it, when everything was going well and there was the hope, prospect, promise of a stable job and a happy future on the horizon happiness wasn't hard to come by, and there were no thoughts of a blonde boy who knew the answer to everybody's problems.

You still think you are two pieces of the same puzzle.

You won't admit it, but sometimes you miss the bus just so you'll have a chance to walk by the old boarding house. Just in case.

You stopped by Slaussen's the other day, half hoping.

And now the books of poetry filling an aged box, the one sitting there open on your lap, for nostalgia's sake.

While you read this all is at the front of your mind and it's hard not to think of how desperate life has gotten. How desperate you are.

Arnold was never coming back. Maybe he would've been the one, or maybe he's changed and this girl sitting on the floor of her apartment in downtown Hillwood has as well. It doesn't matter, because this obsession was becoming a sickness. It was _stopping_ life. It may have been an escape from the nine to five and the lonely weekends, even when you were out with a friend who was telling you about their latest boyfriend. But it's time to face reality.

A man is yelling on the street a few stories below.

The window frame rattles.

You get up and snatch the wine bottle, pour yourself another drink and sit down again because you're onto the next book. Then the next, then the next. Year after year going by, periods of morose and excitement, and you can see it inside the words about the boy becoming a man. Like a diary.

It was almost like getting to know yourself through him.

That's how you spent your Friday night. Up until 1:30 AM, reading every page dedicated to the same person you dedicated every year of your life to since you were, what, five?

The bottle of wine had been finished by nine, but only because you took it slow.

* * *

At eleven AM the window frame rattles and your neighbor slams their door shut at the same time. Your muscles tense and your eyes stay firmly closed, but you can't get back to sleep because the floor is too hard and your arm keeps hitting the edge of something harder. Groggily, you rise out of the pile of books that now cover your floor now instead of filling the box (at the moment an empty husk by your couch, which would have been a more opportune place to knock out on). After your stomach grumbles a few times the decision is made to clean up later, so you pad to the bathroom and wait five minutes for the gushing water to warm up.

Clean and not so spritely, a young blonde woman emerges from her apartment building in downtown Hillwood wearing an oversized red sweater, dark skinny jeans, and loafers with her hair still wet. You walk down the street with your purse tucked under your arm to the cleanest, cheapest, and closest café you can think of. Only a few blocks.

The air outside is cool, cooler than the stagnant air of your apartment. You relax as the breeze pours into your lungs. You don't look different, you're not even sure you feel different, but you are different. The people passing you by, they look different and you know they are, and really, they always have been.

For the first time in a year and a half, you may be excited. You were done with _trying_ to catch love, with wishing for somebody to save you, with attempting to live by forcing yourself. No more with the heaviness in your heart, because it isn't a problem that nobody on the street is _him_.

You aren't even sure if you're hungry anymore when you open the door to a café and the little bells jingle and chime. As you order a coffee and pastry and sit down to eat, you get distracted by looking out the window, watching the city. And even as a blonde young man walks into the café you don't really take notice because that part of your life is over.

"Helga?"

You turn, and there he _fucking _is. Strangely enough, you almost don't recognize him because, after all, it had been five years. But he is definitely standing in front of the table with a drink in hand and a brown paper bag. He's still blonde, his eyes are still an emerald green, and he's smiling in disbelief.

"Arnold?" Your eyes are wide and the corners of your lips turn up.

"Wow, this is such a coincidence! Mind if I join you?" Enthusiastic, as always. His voice is deeper. It's more rugged. You feel a rush of adrenaline.

You nod.

The blonde man sits down across from the blonde woman. It's friendly, happy, and enough to make her fall off the wagon. He smiles, and you think to yourself about how he doesn't know that last night you passed out after indulging yourself on too much liquor and poetry about him. You smile back, because you really, really, really want to smile. The feeling you had this morning when you walked down the steps from your apartment onto the street lingers in the pit of your stomach, whispering to you that you're selling yourself out. But mostly, you're happy.

People would always call you cynical, and, hey, they were right. But for the majority of your life you have been a hopeless romantic. And maybe love has lost some of its charm to you after years of struggling. Still, you appreciate the fact that you didn't bump into this particular man outside of his childhood home, or by any of your other old haunts, but rather in this random part of the city at a random café. It gives you hope that, somehow, it was supposed to happen. That no matter where you and he were, you would find each other.

He asks you about how you're doing, and you say fine, although life isn't really what you expected it to be after college. He raises his eyebrows but doesn't question it. So you ask him back, and he says he's great, he just came back a week ago from a stint in Colombia, during which he helped out at a school in a poor area. He also adds that it was beautiful there, and that you would love it. The way he says it tugs at your heart and the corners of your mouth twitch.

"I want to travel…I just don't have the money," you say, almost feeling like your justifying your life to him.

"Well, you should. You know, I don't have a lot of money either, but if you're willing to compromise it's cheaper than you think."

"Yeah, but I'm not looking to go to South America," you point out.

"You don't know what you're missing," he counters.

"I wish I did," you nibble at your scone to hide your disappointment with your own life. "It feels like things just don't change around here."

"Really? Everything feels different to me. Even the air. It's… heavier now, somehow."

"I think you've been spending too long in the rainforest," you smirk, and he returns the look.

"It's not the rainforest, it's…well, it's not important. Anyway, I'm just saying, when you leave, things go on without you, and you don't realize until you come back…" His eyes are far, far away.

"I'm just teasing, Arnold," the name on your lips is like fire.

"You were always good at that, weren't you?" A smile.

"The best."

"So, what _did_ you expect life to be like?" He leans forward.

"What?"

"You said life wasn't what you expected it to be after college."

"Right," you decide to think before you speak more often. "I- I guess, I just meant… I thought life would be big. Wide. Open. But it's small, compact, closed."

"That doesn't sound like a good thing."

"Well, that's because it isn't, I guess." You grimace, partly because you want to escape your life and partly because you didn't think you'd be telling Arnold all this within ten minutes of seeing him for the first time in years.

"Do you have a job?"

"I do. I'm in the business world."

"Sounds flashy," he raises his eyebrows again. "Doesn't sound like you."

You laugh out of surprise. "What do you mean? People always say I'd be a great negotiator. I'm 'cold-hearted'."

"No, you're not. I've known you for a long time, and maybe I would've said that about you when we were young, but that's not really you. You're sensitive."

You blush. "Why do you say that?"

"I mean, maybe you've changed since high school, but I remember that you were always writing. You painted, too. Did photography. I don't know, I always thought artists were sensitive," he turns to look out the window. "And sometimes, the way you would talk, it sounded like you were saying something meaningful. Like what you were saying meant something to you, and it should mean something to other people, too."

You feel drunk, sort of like last night, except better and more flustered. It is invigorating, intoxicating, intolerably fantastic. So, of course, your words put an end to it before you could stop yourself. "This conversation is getting a little too deep for a coffee shop, don't you think?" A nervous laugh. "I mean, we haven't seen each other in, like, six years, and five minutes in we're already talking about…this." Your eyes try to find a comfortable place to rest your gaze, but there is none to be found, so you look down at your half-eaten pastry.

He turns to look back at you, though your eyes don't move from the scone. "Maybe you're right. It's just…It's really nice to see you again." And cue more blushing. "It's been three years, by the way."

You look up. "Three?"

"We saw each other three years ago, in the summer. I'd been doing more travelling, you were taking a vacation from your internship. Rhonda had a party." And suddenly, you remember a foggy summer night, when the air was dense and every breath weighed you down. You remember colorful lanterns decorating a large yard, tropical drinks with some bite to them, the way you felt your veins were filled with honey and your head with air. He was right, too, because you remember yellow hair and shining green eyes. The drinks were plentiful and the memories were few.

"I…remember. Kind of. I mean…I think I got really drunk," You finally look up again, because if there is one thing you're comfortable with, it's drinking. "But, now that I think of it, I do remember you being there."

He chuckles. "Yeah, I guess you were drunk, but somehow you were…eloquent, at the same time. I don't know if that's the right way to put it, but…I guess you could say you were charming." You don't know how to take that so you just sip at your drink.

His eyes find yours, and even though it's physically difficult for you to hold the stare, you do. You think to yourself, _what happened that night? Fuck, I was charming? What don't I remember that he does? _A staggering thought occurs to you, but you aren't sure if it's exciting or mortifying. _Wait, wait, it couldn't have gone that far…could it have? _But you know Arnold is the kind of man who would have told you, and leave it at that (until later, when you had the privacy to think about it more).

"I thought a lot about you since that night," he admits, and you think you can detect a slight darkening of his cheeks. Still, that thought comes to the forefront of your mind again, and you give him a look that you hope he interprets as serious. "You really don't remember, do you?"

"I- No, I don't." You bite your lip, nerves building.

"Well, basically…we talked. We talked more than we probably ever did in high school. It was actually really cool. You told me a lot about you, things I never knew." You gulp, and grab at the spot where there once had been a locket but was now just air and skin. "Maybe that's when I knew for sure you were sensitive, or whatever trait it is that artists have. I mean, you didn't come across as…snobby, like other people who try to force this label of 'artist' onto themselves. You came across as a girl—a drunk girl—who was free. Free and happy."

How you wish you could remember that night.

"I guess I'm doing it again, aren't I? We don't have to talk about then, if you don't want to." He looks down, cheeks ruddy.

"Actually, Arnold," a pause, "I would kind of like to know what happened that night. What I said, what you said. I…I wish I could remember."

He looks up again and laughs. "I can't believe you don't. I can't believe you got blackout drunk that night and I didn't even notice. I'm really oblivious, aren't I?" You laugh and nod, because you know just how much he really, really is. "Alright, well, I have no problem with it, but…" He checks his watch, and you feel your heart sink. "I do have somewhere to be." He looks back at you and smiles warmly while you melt. "Why don't we have dinner? I can tell you about Rhonda's party and we can catch up more."

Dinner. That was a large step up from meeting, by chance, in a coffee shop. It would give you a chance to look better, be prepared, and…well, a chance to talk to Arnold again. To keep talking. To be a part of his life, in some small way. He fishes a pen out of his pocket, slides the drink holder off of his coffee and scribbles out something onto it. Looking back up at you, his hand pushes it across the table.

"My number. Call me later tonight, okay?" You pick up the flimsy cardboard and stare at the digits scrawled out there. You would call him. You would debate doing it in your mind, your stomach would fill with butterflies, you would pick up the phone and put it down before finishing his number, but you would call him in the end.

"Okay," you smile, happy. Actually happy.

He smiles back, gets up, and walks out the door. You watch him cross the street and disappear from view behind a building. Your eyes find their way back to the number between your fingers and you sigh, a light and airy sort of sigh that you haven't emitted in years.

This morning you had made a decision. It was a decision to live a life free from obsession, from love, from _him_. But now it seemed the universe wouldn't allow that. You didn't care—you had wanted this for too long, and now you had finally been given a chance. Yet you still feel different. Perhaps this wouldn't have happened if you hadn't made that decision. Maybe you had to finally be free, maybe you had to make a choice to live your life by your own terms before he could enter it again.

But you don't dwell on it too much. You had finished your drink and your scone, so you pocket the number and stand up, deciding to take a walk instead of returning to your apartment with the peeling peach paint and the shaking window frame. There were more opportunities to be found, and you had finally realized that you deserved a chance to find them.


End file.
